


E R I S E D

by Lovely_Silhouette



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Awkward Romance, Canon-Typical Violence, DV Week 2020, Domestic Fluff, Dorks in Love, First Kiss, Fluff and Humor, Incest, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Devil May Cry 5, Sibling Incest, Twincest, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Wish Fulfillment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-19
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:33:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22791037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lovely_Silhouette/pseuds/Lovely_Silhouette
Summary: For Day 3 of DV Week 2020. Prompt: Mirrors"He never even noticed. Not when normal humans don’t really ping on his radar most of the time. Not when the only real example he’s ever had to compare himself to was a brother who, as ever, occupies far too much of his mind far too often.He really needs to get some hobbies. Maybe he can take up woodworking, or knitting."Aka, the fic where Dante and Vergil make eyes at each other from across the room and fail to play it cool.
Relationships: Dante/Vergil (Devil May Cry)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 216
Collections: Spardacest Server Fics and Art





	E R I S E D

**Author's Note:**

> Yay, only a day late rather than missing the week entirely! I'll take it.
> 
> This fic was made with extremely heavy inspiration from a conversation with a former but much missed member of the Spardacest server, and I want to give proper credit where credit is due. Without them, this idea would not exist, and certainly not in its current shape (which, altho different from the original convo, tried to keep the original's spirit). You know who you are if you read this, my friend. I hope you, especially, like this fic. But, as always, I hope _everyone_ enjoys reading about two dorks who don't know wtf they're doing! :D

Desire is the emotion of longing. Of hoping for something, or someone.

Another word for desire with the same sense is “craving” - nothing less than a powerful drive for something, at the expense of anything someone is willing to sacrifice to get it. Philosophers the world over speculate that desire is the root of all human action. A fundamental aspect of human existence that compels them through life with the sort of focused drive that is the source of their greatest strength. And their greatest flaw.

The thing about desire is that it's not just humans that have it. It’s a basic instinct all living creatures exhibit just by virtue of being alive. A dog desires its master’s affection and approval. A bird desires to fly free of a cage. Demons desire human blood to grow their own power.

Another thing about desire is that, for good or ill, it’s ultimately selfish. And Dante? He doesn’t know if it's the human part of his being or the demon that has his heart longing for that which is always just out of reach. All he knows is that he wants it for himself, with everything he has, in whatever way he can have it.

~~~~~

Wet blood splatters against the walls of this dusty mausoleum of a bunker he’s been paid to clear out, the hulking body of a Blade demon hitting the floor before dissolving to ash that is indistinguishable from the rest of the dust coating the floor. It’s a fairly simple, casualty-free job, all things considered - client has inherited a piece of property containing a demon-infested ruin and did the research to call a proper exterminator. There’s no extraneous victims to find the remains of because of how out of the way it is, and the spirits that haunt this place aren’t particularly strong. Part of Dante, bloody-minded and bloody-scented by nature, wants to complain about the lack of anything interesting to play with, especially when his surroundings have been little more than a twisting maze of hallways, booby-traps and dull, monotone concrete walls without so much as a withered potted plant or workplace safety poster to break up the stale gray.

The rest of Dante just wants to get this over with already and go home. Call him old, but there’s a nap on the couch in the afternoon sun calling his name back at the office, and Lady has been stealing his spot way too often lately.

He wants to say it's been a few hours? That’s enough time for Vergil to have picked the hidden study clean of any interesting bits, right? Right. Besides, the rest of the rooms are clean.

~~There’s only one other demon left in the entire complex. Just one whiff of that power sends his blood racing, his heart pounding, his muscles twitching with the need to _move_ -~~

Even if he’s not, it’ll be better than poking at dusted demon bits until his brother sees fit to finally come find him. Maybe he can coax Vergil into a fight before they have to go back? It's been a few days since their last romp and Dante wants to keep his lead for as long as possible.

All he has to do is follow the pull of his soul to the other end. His footsteps tap a steady, lazy rhythm that echoes in the stale, dead air. With nothing else to occupy his thoughts, he thinks back to the one time Lady told him that his gait is deceptive. Too casual for how much ground it covers, and too loud for how easy it is for him to sneak up on her when he wants to. Dante always had trouble understanding what she was talking about until he witnessed Trish walk beside her.

He never even noticed. Not when normal humans don’t really ping on his radar most of the time. Not when the only real example he’s ever had to compare himself to was a brother who, as ever, occupies far too much of his mind far too often.

He really needs to get some hobbies. Maybe he can take up woodworking, or knitting.

How much does yarn cost?

~~~~~

The entrance to the hidden study, Dante discovers, is in what might have passed for a bedroom in the military, behind a full-length mirror of all things. It’s a fancy thing when compared to just about everything else here, with a steel stand that gleams despite how long it has stood here without care. The surface of the glass is strangely tinted, making the reflection darker than it really is even with the dim overhead lamps. When he gets close enough, he can see faint patterns moving like refracted light inside the darkness, like the flicker of firelight and a mother-of-pearl sheen. Above the mirror is an engraving, a crack running straight through the middle, letters etched deep and dark into the plate.

**E R I S E D**

Weird. Probably some kind of magical artifact, but what it does could be anyone’s guess. That it’s meant to be some kind of protection is obvious - there should be no other entrance to the study according to the map the client lent them. Maybe it’s a teleporter. Or maybe it summons shadowy doppelgangers to duel you to death if you don’t meet certain requirements.

Dante dislikes mirrors.

The glossy surface distorts when he gets within arm’s length of it, patterns rippling as if it were a surface of water freshly disturbed by a falling drop. Dante squints at it, already reaching for his trusty girls just in case he’s right about the doppelgangers. His hands freeze in place, however, when the surface finally clears, and the image gains unnatural clarity.

The mirror doesn’t reflect what stands in front of it - that much is clear. Otherwise it would only show Dante’s reflection, vaguely dusty and blood-splattered and freshly shaved. Instead, the image it shows might as well have come straight from his deepest fantasies. The ones Dante keeps hidden with the furthest corners of the lockbox of his heart, taken out only to be admired and sighed like a teenager over for the wistful, wishful thinking they are.

Himself, in bed, shirtless and sleep-eyed but nonetheless awake. But he’s not alone. The other half of his nest-bed is occupied by a familiar face; pale skin soft and pale hair sleep-mused from its normal style, eyes hidden by lids that don’t bear the characteristic shadows that haunt them now, even two years after the nightmares that caused them have died at Dante’s own hand. A sudden, roaring hunger that has nothing to do with food or battle has Dante running avid eyes over thin lips that part in inaudible breaths that he can nonetheless _imagine_ the sound of, and the relaxed slant of his shoulders under the thin blankets. He’s facing Dante’s image, and his reflection is watching his brother sleep with an uncomfortably vulnerable softness Dante has never seen on his own face before, taking in Vergil’s features like it would cost him everything to look away.

One of Vergil’s hands is exposed to the air. It doesn’t clutch the Yamato, despite Dante knowing for a fact that his brother clings to her like she’s the only thing protecting him from the invisible horrors that lurk in the dead of night. Instead, she’s leaning against the nightstand on his side. Within easy reach, but further from Vergil than he’s seen her be in years.

Something stirs the Vergil in the reflection awake, some off-screen cue that has both of them reacting. Eyes rendered a pale, icy blue by the power of the Qliphoth flicker open. When he looks at Dante, he is warm, tender, and his smile is sincere. They mouth words at each other, a playful back and forth that has his reflection teasing a smirk and his brother raising his eyebrow in that imperious way that means he thinks he’s got the upper hand.

They look more symmetrical, Dante notes absently, struck dumb by the silent vision playing across the glass. Less like simple brothers, and more like mirrored halves of the same whole. Like twins who’d just grown up and experienced some drifting while doing so.

His chest hurts, and his eyes are getting dry from how much staring he’s doing.

Vergil’s reflection pushes him away, out of bed. His image goes with hands raised and a laugh vibrating his body. He grabs a shirt that matches his well-worn sleep pants and leaves. The sound Dante makes when the image shifts to follow him is faintly wounded, wanting to stay focused on the image of Vergil comfortable and relaxed in his bed. It falls off when his image reaches the main office, everything still the same as when he left it this morning. Everyone already there - Trish and Lady taking up the couch with Nero’s girlfriend from Fortuna, the kid and his mechanic friend dicking around at the bar over something that sparks with bright flashes of light, tools spread all around them like a tornado swept through the nearest department store. The reflection gives a quick wave at Morrison, who nods his hat before he goes back to nursing his drink and chatting up Patty, who herself gives him a brief smile before gesturing emphatically at letter in her hands. He thinks he sees the name of a local college on it.

Dante’s reflection reaches the door and flings it open, and he can’t stop the way his heart skips far too many beats for comfort. He touches the mirror’s surface, causing it to distort like rippling water. It feels like water, too. He yanks it away before it can ruin the image of his mother, 37 years older, hair more grey than brilliant gold, a few more wrinkles and age spots than he remembers, but with a smile like the summer sun and eyes that contain their familiar clever spark of life. Behind her is Sparda, silver hair tied back, wearing wire-framed glasses instead of his cheesy old monocle, timeless and looking more like he’s Eva’s caretaker than her husband of over 40 years, but no less happy and content to be at her side. They greet Dante’s image with smiles and hugs and a kiss on the cheek, and he welcomes them like it's merely been a few days since he last saw them instead of long-buried decades.

It would be easier to list what wasn’t wrong with this quaint little scene. How could Eva and Trish exist at the same time when Trish was created to specifically imitate a _dead_ woman? How is Sparda still alive? How does he know Lady when the only reason they met was because of Temen-ni-gru? How does Nero exist if Vergil hadn’t had any reason to go to Fortuna as a young man? Why does _Devil May Cry_ exist if the only reason he established it in the first place was to have a base of operations when tracking Mundus down for Eva’s murder?

Like a camera on rails, the image swings around to show Vergil descending the stairs, dressed in something casual for once in his life. Their parents sweep into the room, making a beeline straight for him. They acknowledge their eldest son just as warmly as they did him, and Vergil accepts it with an easy comfort that can only come from knowing with every inch of his heart that their parents have always loved him dearly. He returns Sparda’s soft smile and gives Eva a short kiss on the forehead. That’s all Dante can take before he has to turn away with a gasp as if he’s been savagely run through.

When Dante can bring himself to turn back, his and Vergil’s reflections stand next to one another, at his desk, leaning against the hardwood as they take the full shop in, shoulder to shoulder, arms linked together like they used to do as boys. They are content, far more so than Dante ever thought he and his brother ever could have been after everything.

They look… they look happy.

They look happy as they turn to one another, and Dante’s breath catches as his reflection raises a hand to cup his brother’s cheek. He starts to lean in, tender and full of affection. Vergil’s lips open around a word that Dante has paid attention to enough to know he pronounces it like he does no other.

“Dante.”

It’s like he can hear it. His twin’s ever-present dedication to the artistry of language is ingrained into his memory, after all; so much so that he could open one of his rare poetry books in his private library and hear Vergil’s measured cadence recite any stanza. Then, abruptly, Dante realizes that, no, he’s not hearing things out of some desperate, subconscious desire to be more immersed in this visual fantasy - he actually did hear Vergil.

The mirror ripples as a familiar hand presses against it from the other side. It slides through, liquid glass wicking away from skin and cloth like they’re hydrophobic, until the rest of him follows. Vergil, stoic and bruise-eyed and dressed for battle rather than comfort, steps through, and proceeds to pin Dante with the most unreadable, considering look he’s ever seen on his twin’s face.

“Finished stripping everything down?” Dante asks when the silence stretches on too much. His voice trembles faintly, still rattled, but like hell he can show that when he hasn’t even processed what he’s supposed to be feeling right now.

“I have,” Vergil says, taking his sweet time to look away even as he’s turning to face the mirror. Their reflection doesn’t gaze back at them when Dante peers inside again. They’re too busy being focused on each other, lips tasting each other as they laze about on the couch in the evening sunlight.

For a moment, Dante’s heart leaps into his throat, thinking Vergil can see it as well. They’re relationship isn’t the tumultuous, rage and resentment-fueled clash of steel and blood splatters it once was, but even two years later, Dante struggles to see how to breach the divide between them. He doesn’t know how to respect Vergil’s need for space and privacy in a way he now knows, through trial and error, that Vergil needs, and to also be closer, fit tighter, rediscover and redefine the lost parts of what made them “them” and not just “me” and “you”. It’s something that exists under his skin - a constant pressure that speaks of a vacuum that finally has something to fill it, but can’t generate enough suction to pull that something into place.

“The original designer of this place was clever,” Vergil continues consideringly, unphased, as if he can’t see their reflections looking into each other’s eyes as they clash swords as if they’re in love. As if they’ve always been in love, and that love has just changed shape as they grew older. “They gathered many objects of interest and created this labyrinth to house them all in. Many of the old, effective traps are very subtle in nature. This mirror, for example, shows anyone who gazes into it their heart’s greatest desire. In a way, it is the most dangerous protection in this entire facility.”

So, he can’t see what Dante’s seeing? Relief and disappointment mingle in his chest. “Not much of a protection if you ask me.”

“Isn’t it? As it so happens, it’s remarkably effective against beings so easily controlled by their greed. They stand here in front of the mirror, obsessed with what they can’t have, blind to the passing world. It makes for easy targets.”

Dante shoves his hands into his pockets to hide how they clench.

Vergil throws him another indecipherable glance out of the corner of his eye. “Come on,” he says, striding through the mirror again. “Your client specifically stated that we could take anything of value we wanted as payment as long as it wasn’t considered a family heirloom.”

Dante assents with a grumble, giving one last furtive, craving glance at his reflection in the mirror, where he’s dancing with Vergil to some unknown tune playing from the ancient jukebox, before heading through. Stepping through the enchanted glass is like stepping through a wall of dry ice water and frozen algae. It’s a disgusting feeling, slimy and unpleasant, and if Dante hadn’t spent the last several decades sometimes literally wading through rivers of blood, he would have shuddered in repulsion. It’s almost a surprise to look down at himself and see nothing is stained beyond the usual gore spots he accumulates during a hunt.

Looking back, he finds that, instead of a reflection of the study, or even another fantastical, blissful vision, he can see into the bedroom. Dante raises an eyebrow at that. That’s gotta be useful when you’ve got unwanted guests trying to sneak in. “What’d you find, huh? Some old knives and a few dusty books? Are any of them bound in human skin? I’ve heard that shit’s popular with occult literature.”

Vergil gestures to a large potted plant on a desk, surrounded by time-faded books and old blood so dark it might as well be ink. The pot is broken in places where the flexible, spine-tipped roots have managed to burrow through, snaking across the hardwood until they’re dipping into the savaged eye sockets of a bleached and dusty human skeleton dressed in rotten clothes 40 years out of date. The plant itself is woody and hard despite being so obviously immature. It’s dark stem twists in a tight spiral almost as tall as the desk it sits on, and the branches droop as only dead plants can. No leaves litter the space below it.

Dante knows better, however. Underworld things don’t just die; not by age, not even by starvation. The only way to properly kill these things, even a young one, stunted by inadequate soil and no food for decades, is to sever the roots from the core.

Case in point, sensing fresh blood, the roots come to life and wriggle sluggishly. Before they can move into position for a strike, there’s a flash of something thin and silver that catches the edge of his vision, a hair-trigger twitch of motion that triggers bone-deep instinct to _move_. Dante steps back just in time to avoid getting slapped in the chest by the Yamato’s sheath. Folded steel cuts through roots, the pottery and the plant itself cleanly, her edge honed and precise that she leaves even the thick coating of dust undisturbed. Pruned for good, it crumbles away into nothing, leaving Dante to stare at Vergil in silence.

Vergil stares back, almost challenging, chin raised and spine straight. The Yamato’s tip almost touches the ground, yet by stillness with which he holds her, it might as well be pointed at Dante’s throat.

Dante nods, slowly, and with deliberation turns towards the stack of books on the desk, looking for anything salvageable. Knowing Vergil, he’s found a contact or two that will consider a few decades old blood splatters as patina if he wants to sell them. He bends to observe them more closely. “Aw man. Nothing’s bound in human skin. Bo-ring.”

He can almost feel Vergil roll his eyes. The Yamato hisses a quiet song as she is sheathed. “Perhaps it would do you some good to temper your expectations, little brother. This person was a researcher, not a cultist.”

Vergil comes up to stand beside him, already reaching for the top-most tome to thumb through curiously, a little more relaxed at his side than Dante has seen him since they left the Underworld together.

Somehow, it feels like progress.

~~~~~

That night, Dante dreams of Vergil.

It’s not an unusual occurrence by any means, but this time it feels… different. This time, Vergil is fresh-eyed and relaxed, and his smile is surrounded by the dimples that Dante only gets to see when his brother is truly at peace. He’s reading a book from Dante’s library, sitting on Dante’s furniture, drinking something from one of Dante’s mugs. Vergil is lazing about his home as if he owns the place, and the thing that strikes him the most is that his brother’s dark, heavy coat is nowhere to be seen. His bare arms are on display, corded muscle like steel cables, and Dante dreams that he is allowed to walk up behind his brother and run his hands over them without consequence.

When he wakes the next morning, it is to the phantom sensation of silk smooth skin under his palms, the indescribable flavor of a kiss on his lips, and something like despondency thick and sour in his throat.

Despite having done a job yesterday, Dante feels the familiar itch in the back of his mind to get off his ass and find another fight. Vergil denied him a spar yesterday, more interested in his finds than in their routine friendly record-straightening, so now he has no choice but to channel his restless boredom into his job. Morrison will probably have a job or two available, even some low-level romps normally reserved for new bloods that he tries to keep Dante ignorant of if it means he gets a bigger cut of the reward money. But when Dante traipses down into the front office, he has to freeze at the sight that greets him.

“Uh,” Dante says, not quite understanding what he’s seeing. He clenches his eyes and shakes his head a little, but nope. Nope. He’s still there. Vergil is sitting at one of the side tables, having cleared it of all books and the 2 old pizza boxes from him and the ladies’ last get meet up, turning a baseball-sized bronze orb in his hands with an open textbook below him. “Good morning… What are you doing here?”

“Adulthood and entrepreneurship has done nothing to teach you punctuality, I see. It’s already almost 11 in the morning,” Vergil says in favor of a real hello, not bothering to look up from his study. He’s wearing full gloves, Dante notes. His eyes track the long fingers and surprisingly thin wrists, leading to solid forearms and thick biceps and-

It’s hilariously like that moment when a record scratches and everything goes silent and still as he catches up to that train of thought. Vergil’s not wearing his customary coat. In fact, it’s by the door, on the coat rack. Not once in the last 2 years has Dante ever seen Vergil take his coat off outside of his apartment - his own territory.

Dante shakes his head again in disbelief. “Okay yeah, sure, I sleep like a brick, always did. But seriously. What’s the occasion?”

The orb goes in one of the two piles that have formed on the table, one larger than the other. One of them looks to be filled with the kind of crap Vergil would be interested in, the one he places the orb in, so Dante assumes he intends to keep it. “You still need to pick what you want out of our rewards, don’t you? Keep in mind, I’m taking part of your share as repayment for the money you borrowed from me 3 months ago.”

“Didn’t I pay you back for that already?” Dante thinks he did, but it’s a 50/50 shot if he paid Vergil back in paper or if he paid him in favors. The only reason he even remembers paying him back at all is because he wanted to make sure Vergil didn’t try and hold it over his head to extort him for some questionably legal shit again.

One graveyard excursion to collect the soul of an old lich was bad enough. Dante still hasn’t gotten the smell of gravedirt fully out of those pants yet.

“Just sit down and start sorting,” Vergil replies shortly, which, while it doesn’t answer Dante’s question, does warn him of his brother’s growing impatience. Probably really likes what in this particular haul and wants to stake claims clearly. He usually does this part in the privacy of his own home, though, the paranoid bastard.

Dante sighs loudly, exaggerating a roll of his eyes, and takes a brief swing by the kitchen to grab two mugs of coffee. He adds a small sprinkle of cinnamon to the cup he places near Vergil’s hand before taking his place at the other end. His brother glances at the steaming liquid curiously, sniffing the air, before reaching down and bringing it up for a quick, cautious sip. He doesn’t put it down immediately, taking a deep breath and a long, savoring sip.

Dante hides his wonder behind a sip of good, strong black coffee, grabs one of Vergil’s reference books and gets to work. There’s very little he doesn’t plan to pawn off or sell eventually. Maybe he’ll keep the little trinket of rune-inscribed iron - placing it under the floorboards in the center of the building and giving it a few drops of his blood will help boost the power of the agency’s privacy wards. Across from him, Vergil continues to work in silence, only occasionally asking if Dante would rather have an object or not. He takes him up on those offers twice, both times with objects he knows will fetch a good price among his contacts.

Hours pass. Before he knows it, the clock tells him they’ve spent the last 5 hours working in a quiet Dante would dare to call… companionable. It reminds him of brighter days, when he and Vergil could spend half a day just being in the same room as each other and feel content.

But, everything must end sometime. Vergil packs his things in one of his enchanted cases that he uses for his side business and retrieves his coat, leaving the mug he drank from at the table.

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” he says simply, burying his broad shoulders and defined arms beneath his obscuring coat.

Dante cocks his head. “What for?”

Vergil doesn’t answer him, because of course he doesn’t, and leaves through the door without another word. His body envelops in warm blue light, embers of infernal power flickering to life, attracted as if magnetized until they form hard, patterned scales and beautiful armored plate. His brother wastes no time before he spreads his wings and takes off up into the wild blue yonder.

He better be glad not a lot of reliable, upstanding, open-mouthed humans frequent this part of town, or else Dante would be pissed. His neighbors, who admittedly tend to live no closer than 3 buildings away due to… past incidents, don’t know they’re living next to a demon’s lair yet. He’d like to avoid that getting out for as long as possible, thank you.

Still… Dante looks around the office and is struck by a sudden, out of place feeling. Now that Vergil is gone off to do… whatever it is that Vergil does when he’s not itching for a fight, the office feels… quiet. Lonely. Empty.

He withholds the urge to sigh and takes the cups to the kitchen to wash later. Dante sits at his chair behind his desk, and resolves himself to napping the day away until either a client calls, or closing time. Whichever comes first.

~~~~~

Night comes again, and with it so does another dream. Just like before, his brother is bright-eyed and happy, and looks at Dante as if he’s something important to him. The Yamato stays within arms reach, ever-present and ready in case her master needs her, but he doesn’t need her right now. Right now, he’s content, and at home, and utterly willing to accept any and all affection Dante would lay at his feet like golden tribute mined from the depths of his old, jaded heart.

Dante wakes again, that same barren feeling of aching desire unfulfilled choking his first waking breath. And when he can bear to drag himself out of bed, he comes down the stairs to see that Vergil had fulfilled his promise. Once again, he occupies one of the tables off to the side as if he has no reason not to be here when it should be the exact opposite. For the life of him, Dante can’t figure out what he wants.

Hours pass by again, and still Vergil does not leave nor does he give any indication of his thoughts. Dante watches out of the corner of his eye as his brother applies his methodical care to the little treasures he’s gotten his hands on, looking through his books, keeping records and writing emails on that laptop Nero got him and taught him how to use sometime last year. At one point, Dante retreats upstairs to take a shower and stew in his own confusion.

Vergil is _still there_ when he comes back down. At this point, Dante is ready to start hearing news that another asshole is attempting to mess with the fabric of the universe again.

Part of Dante thinks he should be annoyed that Vergil keeps coming in unannounced, but it's not like he ever locks the front door anyway. Most people know better than to steal from the neighborhood demonic pest exterminator. Besides, Vergil never needed to knock to visit his room when they were kids. He always knew he had an open invitation.

“‘S getting late,” Dante remarks casually, wrapping the towel he used to dry his hair around his fist like boxer wrappings. The urge to drop it on Vergil’s head and scrub, just to watch him growl and huff and swat him off is tempting, just for the excuse to put his hands on Vergil’s shoulders in apology, yet the prospect of acknowledging the closeness the act implies is daunting. “You sure your gig isn’t gonna suffer any for loafing around my place for so long?”

“Do you want me to leave?” Vergil asks, pausing in his inspection of a strange, octopus-like statuette to throw another of those strange, inscrutable looks he’s taken to wearing lately. The question hits Dante like a golem’s fist to the chest, and for a good minute all he can do is dumbly stare at his brother like he just spoke Cantonese because… He honestly can’t remember the last time Vergil ever asked him if he wanted his brother around.

It’s in his throat to say no, but would that give too much away and ask too much? His twin still needs his solitude to himself, and Dante… Dante’s learned to be very good about being on his own. Vergil will want to leave eventually, so… maybe...

“Eh, you do you. Mi casa es su casa,” he settles on, pointedly looking away with a sort of casualness he doesn’t feel. The less human shadows in the back of his mind whisper ominously of territory, of rivals and the gravity of so brazenly inviting another so strong and healthy, his equal and opposite, to partake of the safety he’s built here for himself. Dante ignores them the best he can, along with the quiet ache of tentative, fragile hope that peeks out of the cracks like a scared, neglected child.

The look doesn’t fade. Dante feels its weight, taking his measure, and restrains the urge to shift on his feet or run a hand through his still damp hair. The look doesn’t fade, but neither does Vergil get up and leave. “In that case, would you mind calling up Taj and placing an order of paneer naan with chutney and tandoori chicken?”

“That take-out place I always see boxes of when I get the honor of stepping into your place? Yeah, sure. What else they got? I might want some.”

~~~~~

More dreams come every time he sleeps. Each is every bit as wonderful and fantastical as the last, unattainable in their splendor, yet unforgettable in their temptation. Eventually, Dante comes to believe Vergil when he said that mirror, Erised or whatever, was the most dangerous thing on that job. It feels like he somehow managed to curse himself when he stared into its abyss, and found that it had stared back into him to show him what he could never have.

No matter how many times he employs his trusty curse breaking methods, it doesn’t stop, and at three attempts Dante just has to conclude that no, this isn’t magical or karmic or whatever. It’s just him. Maybe Dante really is just that greedy that he can’t let go of that dream he saw.

Would be just his luck that he and Vergil are similar in this way, too. He just has to make sure he doesn’t destroy any cities or raise any absurdly tall towers with needlessly complex internal structures in some desperate attempt to demonstrate his incestuous love for his twin where he can see it. Easy peasy, really.

Of course, Vergil doesn’t make his dilemma any easier. For some ungodly reason he _still_ refuses to spit out, his dear brother continues to drop by nearly every day, spending hours in Dante’s office and just… being companionable? Doing work? Picking through Dante’s library with only a little sarcastic commentary and borrowing books that he doesn’t leave the premises with because he knows Dante will get territorial over it, open invitation not-withstanding? Liking the way Dante makes the occasional cup of joe for him?

Dante swears he’s getting deja vu from just how much this is starting to feel like back to those slow days when they were kids, only weirdly tense, and with less begging for spars and a lot less innocently brotherly feelings.

It’s enough that Dante starts feeling self-conscious about the state of his building. It's not a pig-sty, so he doesn’t have much to feel bad about - just some scattered papers, a few bits of trash and unorganized books, some sweeping and dusting that needs to be done. Easy, simple things that don’t have to be done immediately.

The broom and wet dishrag are in his hands before he knows it when he’s left alone on the 4th day. Vergil doesn’t come in the next day, so he channels his disappointment into getting his books organized on actual shelves instead of just lying around wherever he leaves them. First by color, then by author. The way his brother pauses as he steps in late the day after that, looking around in obvious astonishment, invokes a confusing mix of shy embarrassment and budding pride. Running around like a bachelor trying to impress his date’s parents is worth it when Vergil flashes him a rare, teasing smile. Warmth coils under his breast like a living sunray.

He’s still avoiding looking at Vergil all day, though. This is too out of character for him, but hell if he can figure out how to stop himself. He just has to concentrate on not making a damn fool of himself.

A hard thing to do when it slowly starts becoming easier and easier to slip into long, enthralling day dreams, it turns out. It’s not a problem when he’s on a job or engaged with someone right in front of his face, but when he’s left to his own devices? More than once, Vergil has had to loudly call his name to pull his attention away from imagined continuations of his dreams. Around a week after the visits started, Dante was lost in the memory of what the mirror showed him, and Vergil had to physically place his hand on his arm to startle him back to reality, saying he already called out to him 3 separate times.

Even Vergil has begun to look concerned by the amount of time Dante is starting to waste in his own head. Just what is happening to him?

~~~~~

“I’m surprised you still have any arms left to showcase. One would think you’d have sold them all by now,” Vergil comments a bit snidely behind him as Dante leads him down to the vault he built for all the devil arms he keeps for rainy days. It’s not an unfair thing to say, especially since Dante _has_ pawned off somewhere around the realm of 3/4ths of his total claims over the years. Devil arms are valuable, and even the normal, mundane weapons he comes across can be worth a pretty penny in the right circles provided they have verifiable kill-counts attached. The higher the count, the better the earning, and if they break before he can turn them in, then they make for nice scrap parts and trophy mounts.

“Just stay back,” Dante throws over his shoulder. The keys in his pocket need to be charged with his energy specifically before they’re inserted into the arcano-lock, or they’ll trigger the first wave of ward defenses. “They’re all loyal to me still, so give me a minute to-”

He glances quickly over his shoulder, just to make sure Vergil is listening. Instead of finding him waiting patiently at the end of the hall until he’s given the go-ahead, like he would have _expected_ from his Unspoken Demon Law-abiding brother, however, Vergil is barely more than a foot away from his back.

Keeping track of his twin’s location when in close proximity has always been vital, whether fighting with him or against him. Vergil makes it easy - always broadcasting his strong will as an indomitable force to everyone around him, daring challenge. It’s only his incredible speed and ferocity that prevents that habit from coming back to bite him in the ass. So how in the hell did he manage to walk up behind him without Dante detecting him first!?

The new color of his eyes is beautiful, morbid as it is. Like polar ice, or the sky right before the storm.

“Geez, ever heard of giving a man some breathing room?” Dante asks in an attempt to mask his own off-beat reaction, turning partially around with a spine that is too straight. The faint, distracted quality of the delivery probably sells it less effectively than he would like. Shit.

There’s a curious gleam in his brother’s eyes, like he’s found a new book to thoroughly dissect. He tilts his head to the side, examining Dante’s face with alarming focus. Thin lips purse slightly, which, as Dante’s ever-helpful, never inappropriately timed memory points out, he used to do all the time back when they were kids. The action always made them fuller. Dante always found it cute.

He still finds it cute. Are they as soft as they look, or are they firm as the rest of his twin’s body?

Shit, eyes up - eyes _up_!

“The vault, Dante,” Vergil says, his mouth wrapping around Dante’s name like it does no other word. Just the sound of it sends a tiny frisson down his spine, a wave of lazy, smoldering heat trailing in the wake. Dante swallows shallowly to make sure his voice won’t tremble and puts on airs.

“This little funhouse contains some actors that don’t like you, remember? I’m just trying to be a good brother and make sure a bloodbath doesn’t start in the shop.” To emphasize his point and attempt to gain some distance to reboot his brain with, he jabs a finger into Vergil’s vest-covered chest and applies a small amount of pressure. Just enough to get the hint across. Instead of accepting said hint, however, Vergil looks down at the finger, still solidly in place. Not even deigning to give the courtesy to lean with it.

The driest look he’s ever seen gets tossed his way, Vergil making deliberate eye contact as he curls a warm finger around Dante’s. It’s just a little skin, the smallest touch they could possibly share, and yet the shiver that rocks cracks at his core of resolve is even more devastating, and the heat sinks deeper. His heart is thudding so loudly in his ears he’s sure he’s not the only one who hears it. Vergil pulls his finger away, and Dante just… let’s him. Can’t even muster the faintest shreds of fight when he’s too busy being mesmerized by how _warm_ Vergil is.

He’s so close… Vergil isn’t even pulling away despite the fact that he _must_ feel this weird tension in the air. Tension that’s somewhere between an urge to brandish fangs and claws and demonic steel, and and urge to brush palms over cheeks and brow ridges and rediscover their shape intimately. All Dante has to do is lean forward and he could just _take_ -

No. No… Vergil needs his space, and his freedom. Dante can’t just take-

Later, when their business is finished and he is alone in the agency again for the first time all day, Dante allows himself to collapse against the nearest wall and sink to his ass on weak knees. His heart pounds a staccato beat that feels like only half of a song with the accompaniment missing. His face feels so hot that he has to give into the childish urge to hide it in his knees or else he’s going to _scream_.

He can’t even remember the reason Vergil wanted to see in his vault in the first place. This whole “no desperate or dramatic attempts to express his incestuous feelings” gig is a lot harder than he thought...

He’s fucked. He’s so fucked.

~~~~~

Dante knows he should take better care of himself when it comes to his not-quite human urges. To be fair, however, it has gotten a lot easier to manage them now that Vergil is there to help him work out the kinks with a good spar or three. So, one morning, when he wakes up from another infuriatingly wonderful sleep and feels that mental itch like claws scratching at the back of his skull and muscle fibers twitching seemingly of their own accord, he knows it’s his own fault. He’s gotten spoiled on fights these last few years. Now, because he hasn't been paying attention, it’s been too long since he last shed enough blood to satisfy him. Dante knows himself enough to know that his temper is the thing that’s going to suffer for it first.

He needs to take a job soon. Today, even. A nice long one with plenty of prey. He would ask Vergil for a round, but Dante doesn’t like fighting his brother when he’s like this. Feels too much like they’re enemies again.

Just his luck that Vergil is at his customary table this morning, too, drinking coffee that smells faintly of cinnamon. There’s a paper-wrapped lump on the table that smells like dried demon organs, but Dante doesn’t give it much attention. He’s just starting to get used to Vergil hanging around, has been looking forward to it every morning for weeks now. But at the current moment, the lack of courtesy warning is the first strike of a match.

“Morning,” he grunts out of habit, already reaching for the day’s papers by the door. Two of the letters are bills, and one of those is a warning that he’s forgotten to pay his water bill again. Lovely. All the more reason to go on a hunt today. Half the money made from the last gig went to paying Lady’s tab, and the rest only covered the house payment.

“I have something that might interest you,” Vergil tells him, beckoning him closer. Dante lets the bills flutter to the table in favor of accepting the lump. Tearing the paper away reveals a large, borderline petrified heart the size of motorcycle chassis and the color of dark stone.

“The heart of a lesser wyrm,” he explains promptly. Dante whistles in appreciation - wyrm demons are rare in general, and he heard somewhere years ago that their parts were useful in the creation of vital stars. Organs usually fetch pretty pennies, hearts especially, since all but the lesser ones have been hunted near to extinction.

Vergil can’t be giving this away for free. He raises an eyebrow at his brother in askance. “What’s the occasion?”

“This time of year, hunting is slow,” Vergil says as if he’s choosing his words. He’s glancing very obviously at the open bills on the table. “You’ve complained before that fewer demons tend to cross the veil as it gets closer to spring time than at any other point of the year.”

Just like that, a second match is struck, and the shredded paper tinder of his temper is suddenly dangerously close to catching. “I’m not a charity case, Vergil,” Dante reminds him, harsher than he means to. The itch under his skin scratches more harshly.

“You’re not,” Vergil agrees immediately. He scans Dante over and frowns, seemingly puzzled by what he sees.

“Then what is this about?” Dante takes care to wrap the heart up neatly and tightly, following the original wrapping lines. These things are too rare and too expensive to let rot set in just because he’s being a frustrated child that hasn’t gone out to play all day. “For that matter, why have you been coming over so much lately? Do you want something or what? Is this,” Dante gestures to the heart, “to get a favor? I’m completely lost, here, man.”

“Is it really so unusual of me to want to see my little brother?” Vergil asks, carefully blank.

Dante snorts and manages to turn his impulsive eye roll into a mere sideways glance. Stupid as that question is, Vergil has been making a lot of effort to be around these past few weeks. A lot more than he ever made in the past… Geez, he feels like a cynical, neglected boyfriend just thinking that, and there’s nothing even remotely like that between them. He really needs to get these fantasies under control. Is it too late to pick up knitting?

He decides not to answer beyond what he already has.

For the first time in weeks, the silent air hangs awkwardly between them. He’s still not sure what Vergil wants, and Vergil isn’t offering any answers. He’s staring, solemn, down at his open book - one of Dante’s by the condition of the pages - fingers tapping away at the paper. He thinks he recognizes the melody to Ride of the Valkyries.

“You haven’t had a proper battle in a while, have you?” Vergil asks him suddenly, gaze turned contemplative.

Dante’s brow furrows. “Why? And even if that was the case, you know I hate fighting you when I’m in a mood.”

“Too bad,” Vergil replies, smirking triumphantly like he’s just solved a riddle. He closes his book with a snap and gets up from the table. The wyrm heart gets stored in the enchanted briefcase Vergil brings whenever he’s going to be working on his occult business that day, and it's only because his attention gets drawn that way that he realizes something that throws him off-balance entirely.

Vergil isn’t wearing the Yamato. In fact, she’s resting innocently on top of his work case before he has to transfer her to the table; no less an effective guardian despite not having been unsheathed by her master. Within arms reach, but further from him than Dante has seen her be in years.

Just like the mirror’s vision.

“You know you won’t find a better fight this time of year,” his brother points out with ruthless precision, already making for his coat. “And, if I remember rightly, our current score is even. The scales need to be tipped once again, wouldn’t you say, brother?”

“Oh fuck you, I’m in the lead, asshole!” Dante starts scrambling for his nearest red jacket. It’s a lucky thing that he was already planning to go out on a job today and dressed for the occasion. He’s only got a few pants left that are sturdy enough to take the punishment he puts on them, and only 2 of his jackets have built-in holsters for his girls. The bloodlust is still twitching in his veins, meaning he’s not really going to be able to stop himself from aiming to wound, to maim, but he’d be lying if he said the revelation of Vergil’s… comfort? Trust? in his home hadn’t pushed it quite far into the back of his mind. Something about him even manages to feel… excited.

At the door, Vergil levels him with one of his most infuriatingly smug, handsome smiles. All cocksure arrogance and easy confidence, lips stretched into a grin just wide enough to bring out his most lethal weapon - those fucking dimples of his.

He wants to kiss him so badly, even as he wants to punch him in the face.

Their battle is lengthy, vicious and full of untamed violence once the Yamato opens the way to their usual stomping ground. Bullets slice through the air, ringing out like tolling bells, only to be caught or deflected by folded demonic steel. Their swords clash in streaks of plasma blue and blood red. At some point, Dante forgets when, they assume their triggers and take to the sky, clashing hard enough to tear apart low-drifting cloud and scare birds from miles away.

This. This is what Dante needed. The freedom to let go, to release all restraint and let his power scream through his body like he is war incarnate. Opposite him, Vergil matches him clash for clash, stares into his eyes and challenges him over the crossing of their blades and friction heats them, and that just drives the euphoria higher until Dante feels like he’s high on it.

There are many ways in which Dante loves Vergil, all of them meant dearly and sincererely, from the bottom of his heart. This just so happens to be one of his favorites now that the bad blood has been leached from their wounds. Each swing of his sword is a precisely-worded confession - you are my equal, I have searched far and wide and never met anyone like you - and each bullet and flying spectral blade is a thorned rose that seeks to find their recipient. He parries and dodges Vergil’s answers, because he can never make things easy for his brother, oh no. He can give his love as freely as he wants, but they both know the only kind of love worth holding onto is the kind that has earned the right to be given.

By the end of it, both of them are panting in the dirt, and Dante is seconds from falling flat onto his face from the non-stop combat. It doesn’t really matter who scored best right now - both of them agreed some time ago that battles where one or both of them get a little too heated to keep the affair strictly mutually friendly will not count towards their scores, and much as Dante was able to relax enough to have fun, he can admit he was still too wound up to stay within their usual unspoken rules.

Vergil makes his way closer to him and allows himself to fall back. His coat is covered in dust, and has several rips that will need to be patched up sooner rather than later. Blood leaks sluggishly from a deep scratch on his nose. “Feeling better?”

“Yeah.” He really is. The depths of his mind are blessedly silent, and his muscles are more relaxed than if he’d spent hours getting worked on by a professional masseuse. “Thanks.”

“You owe me,” Vergil declares with self-satisfaction despite his breathlessness.

“Screw you, you were just as restless as me,” Dante counters instantly. Vergil laughs at his protest. That’s as good as a confession in Dante’s books. “... Hey, Vergil?”

“Hm?”

“No bullshit this time.” Vergil hadn’t answered him back at the shop. There’s no guarantee he’ll answer Dante now, but he’s hoping that a good, exhausting fight will have brought his twin to a more gregarious mood. “Just… what are you doing? In regards to… everything, these last few weeks.”

Wind whistles overhead, carrying with it hints of another snow storm on the horizon. The smallest flakes melt before they can touch his overheated skin. Vergil seems to visibly wrestle with himself as he contemplates his reply, which Dante will count as a partial win no matter what comes out of his mouth. Or doesn’t.

“I know what the Mirror of Desire showed you that day,” Vergil says eventually, and as usual, he’s bracingly direct. At first, Dante has trouble comprehending what he’s hearing. Mirror of Desire? When he finally does process it, however he can’t help but feel a chill like icicles running tip-first down his back.

Desire. Erised. Shit.

“Part of what made the mirror such an effective defense is that anyone on the opposite side could observe the secret desires of whoever stood in front of the mirror,” he goes on to explain, casual-like. Like he’s talking about the weather and not, you know, having been given a front-row seat to Dante’s most vulnerable dreams. “It made separating friend from foe very easy when used properly. I had just heard you coming and glanced over when I saw you had become enthralled by the mirror’s enchantment. You saw our parents and those you considered family. You saw us, together, true mirrors once again…”

Vergil’s hands clench around the Yamato’s sheath. “You saw me, happy. I will admit that I… hadn’t expected that.”

Yeah, Dante can imagine. After everything, if Dante had been in Vergil’s shoes and his twin in his, he could imagine that Vergil would place less of an emphasis on his well-being, too.

“I hadn’t expected your desires to mirror mine.”

Dante is sitting straight up and turned to fully face Vergil before he’s even consciously aware of having moved. “Wait, really? You’re not fucking with me?”

“I’m not,” his brother denies flatly, sounding the slightest bit offended.

“I want to kiss you,” he blurts out, a lump of desperate, love-sick emotion forming in his throat.

Vergil tilts his head consideringly. It’s not an assent, but nor is it a decline. It’s enough that Dante feels like chancing a few scoots forward until he’s on his knees and he and Vergil are face to face, bodies bare inches from colliding. Sudden nerves make his hands shaky and uncertain as they reach out to cup his brother’s face, bloody and dirty and yet still so beautiful, a masculine Hellen Dante would gladly play Paris for if asked, launching 1000 ships if it meant he could look upon him and love him, but he _can’t_. Dante refuses to take from his brother-

Vergil sighs through his nose impatiently. He reaches up to grasp Dante’s chin with firm fingers and leans in to kiss him. They’re everything he’s always dreamed of; firm and soft and more.

This can’t be real. There’s no way this is real; Dante has never been this lucky-

The breath gusts out of him as Vergil’s fist impacts his gut sharply despite the lack of momentum. Dante glares at him in betrayal as Vergil stares back reprovingly, holding his hand over his gut protectively. “What the hell was that for?”

“You forget that I know you as well, Dante. I can hear the hamster wheel in your head turning. No, this is _not_ a dream, a hallucination, or a particularly immersive vision. This is real.”

“There are easier ways of getting that across, dick.”

“Not with stubborn fools like you, there’s not,” Vergil says, in the most Vergil way possible. An older brother used to corralling his younger, never once realizing that he’s just as bad in the exact same ways. That cinches it. In all times Dante has dreamed that perfect dream of him, he’d never done something like this. If he thinks about it, that Vergil was too nice. Too willing. Not enough _Vergil_ to give the illusion the life it needed to be anything more than an unrealistic ideal.

He finds he prefers the real version better.

Dante tackles him to the stone and makes sure to add teeth to the kiss he gives, just to pay him back.

~~~~~

After a couple of arguments and make ups and then more arguments, it is decided that Dante will give the agency to Lady and Trish as a new base of operations and move in with Vergil. Devil May Cry is his baby, his first real home since the fire decades ago, but he’s come to realize that it’s got too many dark, lonely memories inside of it to truly be a _home_ for them.

The first night Dante sleeps in _their_ bed, in _their_ home, he doesn’t dream of that perfect, ideal world. Instead, his night is blissfully dark, and it’s like the entire night has passed by in a single blink of the eye. Dante hides his smile in the meat of Vergil’s shoulder.

His brother presses a sleepy kiss to his forehead and gives a faint noise of greeting.

“I didn’t have that dream last night,” Dante tells him groggily.

“Hmmmm? Eloquence is a virtue, little brother,” Vergil mutters back. His arm drafts down to wrap loosely around Dante’s waist. Fingers glide against his stomach.

“ _That_ dream. You know the one,” Dante explains helpfully, and trails a hand down to tangle his fingers with the ones on his stomach. “Guess everything I want is right here now, eh?”

In an instant, Vergil has shrugged him off, sat up, and is now holding a pillow over his face in a futile attempt to smother him. His voice, muffled as it is, bellies a grim determination. “It pains me to have to do this so soon into our cohabitation efforts, Dante, but you leave me no choice.”

Dante laughs and fights his brother off as best he can. He wouldn’t exchange this for anything.


End file.
